


Where There's Smoke

by fewlmewn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Worship, Character Study, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Impact Play, Introspection, M/M, Mentions of Sounding, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rimming, Scars, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21980545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fewlmewn/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: Dorian Pavus entertains a (yet) private relationship with the Inquisitor, and the two indulge in some intimate activities, unbeknownst to (most of) Skyhold's residents. In the meantime, Dorian analyzes his situation, why he's so afraid of revealing himself, his feelings for Trevelyan and other aspects of himself and his lover.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

The sounds that came with the first hours of morning where always a delight, as much as Dorian loathed to admit it. The frigid weather did nothing to diminish the enthusiasm of birds and owls who nestled and fluffed their feathers up the trees that dotted the grounds of Skyhold at night or into the day. Even the annoying cawing from a few doors down the balcony had grown to be endearing, a reminder that there was more beyond the despair they were battling, beyond the Frostbacks and the scarred sky. Lands that carried the promise of aid, alliance even, just a crow’s flight away.

There were a number of things that had proved to be unexpectedly pleasant about the South, but stating as much would have warranted mockery in return from just about anyone he had dared to mock in the past months.

Some days he just felt so carefree of chains he didn’t even know he had – or that he had refused to acknowledge for far too long – that whistling seemed like a good idea. Of course that would’ve ruffled his moustache, and he wasn’t nearly as good a whistler as his admirers, clearly, but a few stray songs did skip his lips in chilly mornings as he got ready for the day, lazily kindling the fire or as he made his bed with a zeal and precision to parallel the best-trained manservant. Distancing himself from Tevinter as much as possible meant going against the rules even in the smallest and most trifling of tasks, such as attending to his own needs and refusing to be served, whereas his fellow countrymen would’ve even had slaves sweep off the crumbs from their pompous chests instead. A metaphor that held only when he didn’t entirely forget to leave his alcove in the library to even dine, but at least he knew that when the elven lady who cleaned the windows brought him jugs of water or a light meal, it was out of honest concern and not servitude – at least he was sure of that much here, far from the Imperium. It was one of many refreshing things about the South, or Skyhold at least. But he knew he would’ve had to go back to set things right with a firm hand, and firmer decisions, eventually.

But for now, other plans were still in motion, moving painstakingly forward, in a battle of swords as much as it was one of wits. Awaiting for the checkmate, with everyone trying to anticipate their opponent’s moves, and Corypheus was a seasoned player in this game of his own fabrication that had Skyhold grasping at straws and pulling every string to try and gain an advantage.

In all of this, Dorian couldn’t be more grateful for the small mercies he was granted in the form of everyday routines that kept him lucid through the plight.

He didn’t quite make a show of it – some already had well-enough of a reason to scowl at him, waiting for signs of possession or traditional Tevinter treason of the highest calibre – but the continued hardships the Inquisition had to face were starting to take their toll on him too. He didn’t want to bother the Inquisitor with his problems, of course, and not these ones anyhow. Others had it worse.

The flocks of rascals and urchins that had lost their mothers, fathers and homes, the old ladies who helped out with what they could, the soldiers who succumbed to wounds, daily, before being given the glimpse of hope that victory was nearing. He saw them and couldn’t bring himself to whine about the battle that was raging inside of him, about the distant sense of guilt that was biting at his core with poisonous words that reminded him that he hailed from the same cradle that had seen this evil that threatened the world rise. His better judgement told him that such worries were misplaced, and that once this was over he would’ve fought with tooth and claw to build a better future for the Imperium – and for himself, because he was going to need the reassurance. From what Trevelyan had told him, at least Cole was helping out those who were in pain. He some days wished the spirit would’ve helped  _ him _ get through this too, but his head was more of a mess than he let on, and he was still too proud to allow others to see his true thoughts. Cole respected that, mostly, but Dorian knew the spirit was still devising a plan to eventually untangle his ‘hurt’ and dissolve it. Come the time, he was quite convinced he would’ve welcomed the attempt, and sincerely hoped it would’ve worked. Maker knew he needed it.

When he snuck into the tavern later that day, Sera smiled at him with an arrow between her teeth and a quill in her ink-stained hands, raising her head from a small book filled with jumbled drawings of pumpkins and demons with crossed-out eyes.

_ She had said he was getting less ‘Vinter  _ – _ once discarded the habit of drinking himself into a stupor before going to sleep that he’d religiously kept through the first few weeks at Skyhold or, as she had said,  _ “Good you stopped gettin’ piss drunk, yea? Less demons knocking, this way, ’s better”  _ followed by a mock thudding against a wooden door with a wailing voice that she mimicked by hitting the counter with a fist, then a stuck-out tongue and a resonant “Thbbpt!”, which apparently represented Dorian refusing entry to pesky demons; and lastly, her impression of ‘demons’ crying and weeping in a high-pitched voice “let us in Pavus, let us in!”. That had to account for something. _

“A birdy told me you’re helping the Little People, ‘s good! I had to shoot down the thing, though. New arrows! Shiny feathers and all.” And she whooshed it dangerously, risking Dorian an eye and perhaps both of hers.

“Am I now?” He leaned on the table with a nonchalant expression, not quite sure of what had warranted the comment.

“Yeah! Didn’t you give one of your knock-outers to Dig?”

She had lost him. “Come again?”

“Did you. Or didn’t you. Give your big-arse ring with rubies and shit to Dig?” An half angry frown formed on her brow, if the information had been wrong, on Dorian’s head be the consequences. Fortunately for him, he had indeed given away the piece of jewellery.

“I’m assuming ‘Dig’ is the sweet dwarven lady working with Master Dennet, who just so happened to have misplaced her wedding ring on her way from Haven. Then yes, Sera. I offered to have the blacksmith use my ring to create a new keepsake for her. For all it’s worth, it won’t replace the original.”

“Still something, right? I knew you weren’t half-bad, I could feel it in my toes.” Followed by her making fun of his voice, dropping her tone half an octave “For aaall it’s wooorth.”

They laughed and downed a tankard of ale each, and Dorian pleasantly noticed how his improved drinking habits allowed him to enjoy alcohol in moderation while feeling the upsides of it. In the past, it would’ve taken far more to feel this warm and relaxed. Nowadays, a mug sufficed plenty.

He walked back along the battlements towards the upper courtyard, shivering despite his woollen coat as he enjoyed the night breeze, a touch too much on the cold side but pleasant on his heated cheeks nonetheless.

The fireplace would’ve warmed him up soon enough.

He shallowly bowed to Mother Giselle as she finished the last of her evening prayers, risking to be deemed disrespectful, but for once the woman understood his true intentions. Those were his ways, and more often than not he didn’t intend them to be a mockery – if one does not count the occasional malicious remarks and subtle subtext he sneaked among his words – but such was simply the result of years of aristocratic and pretentious ingrained behaviours. His etiquette tutors were to blame if once across the border everyone thought  _ him _ a boor for the exact same conduct they had imparted him in the first place, meaning for it to be a display of politeness.

His room was cold, as expected, but a gesture of his hand had both the candles in the room and the wooden logs sitting idly in the firepit lit effortlessly.

Dorian turned to his vanity and, once removed his coat, he undressed down to his breeches to bask in the newfound heat shirtless, to read a very interesting essay on Nevarran wards against the undead before sleep reclaimed him.

He grabbed the book from his bedside table and turned on his barefooted heels to comfortably sit in his armchair, only to find the seat already taken.

“Maker! You gave me the startle of a lifetime. How did you get in?” It was a useless question. The Inquisitor had snagged from stray thieves and spies unfortunate enough to get on his way as many lockpicks through the ages as stalks of straw littered the stables. No closed door would’ve kept him out if he meant to enter. Evidently, he very much needed to be inside Dorian’s room.

To those who didn’t know him, Reinhard Trevelyan appeared to be a mysterious man, cold even, perhaps. He kept to himself, parting his lips only to utter the bare minimum Josephine allowed him to get away with. He would’ve gone with far less had she not overseen most of his public relations with nobles and supporters of all kinds. He was a man of a few words, and he let his actions speak for themselves. To the onlooker, the Inquisitor might have seemed ruthless and unforgiving, but a single participation to a session of judgement held by Trevelyan would’ve uncovered more facets to his character. As for the other colourful and charming sides he was prone to reveal, one would’ve had to ask each of his companions, for they were the only ones he showed them to. And had Dorian not seen first-person how Reinhard acted with the others – or rather, spied, but that is a gauche term and doesn’t entirely capture the measure of what the mage did unbeknownst to the Inquisitor – there would still be things of Trevelyan’s personality kept from him.

The Inquisitor was an excellent listener and only supplied pearls of wisdom, diligently eked out to all in need,  _ when _ strictly necessary. He was most content being with story-tellers, their tales a familiar lullaby in the background as he sharpened his blades or compiled reports, and far be it from anyone to think he doesn’t value their words. He would most likely be able to retell those fables and wonderful adventures in the most minute detail – he simply doesn’t wish to. The Inquisitor is not a story-teller. Some say he’s the one to carry out the stories others can only dream of being able to narrate to future generations, leaving posterity utterly bare in the face of the actual events transpired.

But Trevelyan didn’t disdain the company of his more quiet companions either. Sparring with the Commander after the sun had appeared barely over the horizon, enjoying the songs flying in the air across the garden as he sat with Cole on the ramparts, looking down on maids and Chantry sisters devoutly singing different tunes, all beautiful: these were things the Inquisitor relished in, and those were his own personal mirror shards, looking back at him and granting him some well-deserved peace of mind.

Small moments, stolen to others, so that Dorian could know his lover better, understand him more deeply.

And Dorian doubted to be deserving of Reinhard’s unconditional affection. He feared what his opposers might say, pointing their fingers and accusing him of abusing Trevelyan’s power and influence for his own ends. He could almost feel the bitter words on his tongue already, rusted and metallic like old swords never laid to rest after a jaded war. The mere thought made him feel guilty at times, like he was indeed using the Inquisitor’s goodwill and connections without realizing it, like the happiness he got out of their relationship was enough of a boon for him to believe his fears. Fears that had not been voiced yet, since Reinhard had been so gracious to respect his wish to keep their relation a secret, at least for the time being. To his request, the rogue had nodded and, just as the last licks of red sunset lit their skin and made their eyes glisten like amber forged in fire, he whispered in Dorian’s ear.

“I would so love to kiss your eyelids and feel the heat upon your skin, but if you would have us keep this between us, I shall oblige.”

The mage had to breathe deeply at that to smother the raging desire and shun thoughts that would’ve inexorably led to public indecency.

And the mage was ever so grateful for his lover’s approach to the situation, but couldn’t help feeling the pangs of something sharp inside of him, biting and catching and threatening to make these castles made of smoke vanish, to wake him from this dream.

Trevelyan knew his way in the shadows, he knew out to go unnoticed when he wanted to, which made their arrangement somewhat easier for them both.

His skill was inevitable, with his lineage and his upbringing. A rascal, more trouble than anything, but beloved nonetheless. But he too was the black sheep of his family, much akin to what Dorian had been for his, although the House of Pavus had no white sheep with which to compare their son, while the family of Ostwick had plenty of pious examples for Reinhard to follow. In a way which felt foreign and sat weirdly with him, this made Dorian feel like he wasn’t the one who had it the worst for a change. Reinhard just had refused to be leashed and caged and be led towards one of the paths forged for him. Becoming a Chanter and speak in riddles for the rest of his life? The ultimate bridling of the Templar Order, or what it once was? The rogue was infinitely glad to have escaped making a final decision as long as he had, or else the world would’ve been swallowed by now, and he would’ve been relegated to the forsaken ruins of a Chantry burned to the ground, or worse, walking a path of slavery to lyrium that, whichever the form taken, would’ve undoubtedly been a curse.

There wasn’t really a place for him back home. So he made his home in the dimly lit corners of Skyhold, where no one would’ve seen him fiddling with daggers and getting new scars among the already calloused ridges of his fingers.

Going about the mutually beneficial relationship he and Dorian had begun almost in jest wouldn’t have been too much of a problem, given his proficiency in entering and exiting rooms at his leisure, none the wiser.

There had been a time for romantic trysts, looks shot over the dining table, knowing nods that needn’t any words to be understood, meetings they had both agreed upon with a few tactical notes left behind inside books only Dorian could’ve possibly showed an interest in. Like the offer for an evening of pleasure entrusted to a tome thick as his forearm on the structure of corpse tissue in various wild animals. But to show up unannounced, in Dorian’s own room… the mage could only imagine what hunger was hiding behind those chiselled and seemingly composed features looking up at him from his armchair.

“How long have you been waiting here – in the dark? Had I known…” Dorian scrambled to retrieve the essay, dropped in surprise. And despite the desire pulsing in his veins, the book had a near immeasurable value and it was worth salvaging from the floor before it got trampled on in a haste the mage hoped would’ve soon followed.

“Long enough to be blinded by your sight.” He answered, uncrossing his legs and stretching languidly against the padded backrest. Quite the charmer, he was, albeit only behind closed doors and in hushed whispers. For now, that was enough.

A quick look around the room cast in mellow colours and soft hues revealed that the time spent in the room had produced several results. Reinhard was wearing a simple tunic, a tightly knit wool by the looks of it and although the colour did nothing to praise the rogue’s fair complexion it did pull around his muscled torso and upper arms. It had also scrunched up along with his movements, revealing a most enticing strip of skin where his body filled a – very flattering – pair of chamois breeches. He had discarded his belt on the nearby table, a lock picking set laid messily out of its intended spot on it. This  _ was _ telling. Reinhard had  _ fumbled _ to get into Dorian’s room, and that betrayed his urgency, despite the poised demeanour he now purported. He had also discarded his black ram leather coat, the one with the ridiculously big hood that made him look like an executioner up the gallows but which did indeed aid the whole idea of keeping to the darkness. And lo and behold, a pair of boots and mismatched woollen socks complimented the portrait. Gloriously barefoot, with most of the buckles unbuckled and ties untied already, someone seemed eager to savour what was about to happen.

When Reinhard patted his thigh and whispered “Come here” so low a crackling from the fireplace almost silenced it, Dorian’s knees nearly gave out. The hand still clasping the bedside table was the only thing saving him from looking like a newborn foal with limbs yet to discover. A sweet smirk painted the rogue’s face, pulling at the many invisible scars along his jaw and lips.

Dorian couldn’t help but comply, striding across the room as sensually as the small distance allowed and ending up with spread legs across the Inquisitor’s lap.

With the distance between them now a far-away memory, Reinhard immediately dove into his lover, hiding his nose in the tender line of Dorian’s neck and mouthing at his collarbone.

“Been waiting all day for this.” The sound reverberated up his throat, all the more deeper given the position and the evident arousal. For a man of few words, he most definitely chose the ones that best fit the situation. Dorian’s desire was getting rekindled at every turn.

“Have you, now?” The mage couldn’t let his chance to tease the man escape him. “I wonder how tedious the meetings with your advisors must be. And having Josephine summarize it all once it’s over because you were too busy with – “ Dorian leaned in, closing what little space was left between them, bare chest flush against tickling wool, a hot mouth against Trevelyan’s ear “ –  _ other  _ thoughts? How uncivil of you.” With a bite behind the words little short of a literal one. But still, the sentence was followed by a lingering swipe of tongue, feline.

The experienced hands at Dorian’s back were already exploring, muscles shifting of their own accord as the rogue worked out the kinks of a long day spent, decadently, in the same spot in the library, like a painting to last for the ages. But Reinhard knew two could play that game, and jumped – or rather, pounced like a wild thing – at the opening.

“I would have you scream in pleasure tonight, but I know how much you care about remaining undiscovered.” He answered in kind between wet, open-mouthed kisses along the scalding column of Dorian’s neck. But the oral attack was far from over. “And I just so happen to know there’s a service in the chapel tonight. It’s swarming with sisters below us… “

That would’ve explained the late prayers, the Inquisitor wasn’t lying then. Maker preserve him, because Mother Giselle would’ve surely had his head on a pike if she found out about them this way. Dorian moaned at the words as they were followed by a hint of teeth at his jaw, and the swipe of a hot tongue where white indentures of the shallow bite were already fading.

“Hush, don’t give up so easily, now.” Another low whine followed, and the mage could feel the smug smile draped across his chin. At this point he was hoping Reinhard would’ve just gone further north a bit and silenced them both with a kiss. “What am I to do with you? I’ll have to gag you if you keep this up.” Trevelyan sighed and opened the floodgates without the least regard towards Dorian’s mental sanity.

Barely a moan and a whine, and already the rogue was demanding silence? This was outright madness, the Chant would’ve surely masked as much.

Then came the kiss. Their eyes met and it was like staring into a dark well filled with lust to the brim, Trevelyan’s already deep brown irises were completely wrapped in black, full-blown desire. Dorian was busying himself with tracing each and every line of knitted skin that crossed the rogue’s lips, but they parted all too soon and he was engulfed in a demanding clash of tongues. Reinhard delved deeper, tasting the last of honeyed ale upon the roof of Dorian’s mouth, feeling the softness and warmth the mage offered openly. In turn, Dorian could experience a whirlwind of herbal aftertastes mingling and moist. His herbalism classes hadn’t gone well enough to allow him the ability to recognize concoctions from a ravaging kiss, but it was sweet and sour at the same time, and spiced, like ginger lingered on the underside of his tongue. For a moment, he was so far gone he didn’t notice the rogue’s hands expertly moving to his erogenous zones. A dim buzz reverberated across his still clothed arse, where Reinhard had snuck a Fade-touched hand under his breeches, in full contact with his flesh, snugly trapped. His right was drifting up, caressing shoulder-blades, pressing on his neck to further deepen the kiss and, finally, nestling in his hair, gripping tightly but not pulling. A reminder, a promise for more.

The mage couldn’t help but moan into the man’s mouth, impatient to feel the practiced motions and wet embrace of his skilled mouth engulf more of him. The Inquisitor – Reinhard – always took care of him so.


	2. Chapter 2

Some days it was more prominent than others, but throughout their concealed encounters, one thing was kept consistent. Trevelyan’s fixation with tasting all of Dorian, to swallow him whole as if the Tevinter was a luxurious feast laid out for his delight. And Reinhard did indeed take the utmost pleasure in worshiping and losing himself to Dorian. It was mutually beneficial, and with the present premises, the mage couldn’t help but rut against the Inquisitor’s sinewy chest and fiery loins in anticipation. 

Dorian’s hands had resorted to helplessly tug on Reinhard’s tunic, not to remove it, just pulling and crumpling it in different directions – if today was going to be anything close to other times, the garment wouldn’t have left the rogue’s body for a long while, much to the mage’s disappointment, who had yet to have the chance to indulge in his lover’s body ever since their relationship had begun.

Sated for the moment, with the branding kiss that had left them gasping greedily for air with reddened lips, in the blink of an eye the hand in Dorian’s hair joined its twin and settled on the mage’s other lonely buttock. With both clever hands now firmly clutching at his arse, Reinhard gathered all of his strength to his core and hauled them both to his feet. Dorian trembled against the shortly-trimmed hair over his lover’s ear at the display of force, taking in with a laboured breath Trevelyan’s heady scent.

A pungent and intense embrace of vetiver and camphor, smoky but refreshing and with an undeniable earthiness that reminded Dorian of quick rendezvouses amid the bushes, that would’ve had lovers rolling in the high grass and soaking their smallclothes in the midnight dew.

To retain a measure of dignity, Dorian resolved to twine his arms around Reinhard’s neck, instead of desperately scratching down his back for more pressure, more contact, more of everything the rogue had to give.

Gently but purposefully, the Inquisitor lowered them on the bed after walking the short distance, kneeling between Dorian’s spread legs with a sharp yet muffled pop of bone on cartilage.

The mage let go of his firm grip to spread and stretch out his arms, like crucifixion, chest rising and falling first rapidly then progressively returning to steadier rhythms, interrupted by the occasional intake of air when Reinhard’s tongue stumbled on his hardening nipples.

Like a scout charting territory. The Inquisitor left no fog of war on the battlefield that was Dorian’s taut torso. Scattering kisses on his collarbones, swiping his pink lips on the tight skin there, dipping his nose in the cleft it created where shoulder met neck, fully expecting a pool of sweet molasses. He felt the pectorals twitch under his chin and reverently lowered to pay them their due care.

Dorian couldn’t help but stare at the blissed expression on Trevelyan as he circled his teat with an open mouth, sucking on the skin like a man starved and playing with the nipple with the very tip of his wet tongue, its movements a mystery once his engulfing lips shielded the view.

The mage was enraptured, but even in ecstatic abandon he remembered to remain quiet, favouring silent gasps to the loud whines that his mind played back at him like a broken record inside his head.

It was endless torture. The pressure and alternated flicks of the muscle inundating him with slick spit were too nifty for him, and when they became predictable, the rogue surprised him with a gust of breath that made him shiver, or a gentle nip, with an edge of sharp ownership.

Under him, the nearly desensitized hands over his toned glutes started kneading his flesh with purpose, and an odd vibration scattered where the Mark caressed him. Reinhard lowered and Dorian returned to his senses after the blissful trance to his lover’s hot breath jumping across his abdomen, the woody crackle against the stone firepit of logs collapsing in feathery cinders, and a tantalizing view of his own flushed chest, reddened breasts and swollen nipples. 

The sight made him whimper soundly and he rushed to bite back what was sure to follow. It was only the beginning – Maker, they were still clothed – and he couldn’t have failed Reinhard’s vow of silence so early into the proceedings, lest he make a fool of himself. He was going to obey, surely he would be able to manage such a simple task.

“Not a peep.” The Inquisitor mused, mouthing the words to some secret faerie inside his belly instead of looking at him. When he did raise his gaze, Dorian felt pliant under the rogue’s wild eyes. Small scars, like cracks in a porcelain doll, pulled with the myriad minuscule twitches of his brow and how he scrunched up his nose in amusement. He enjoyed tormenting Dorian, and with both of them this far gone, there would’ve been no way to climb up the pit of lust they had plummeted into. He had to endure.

Reinhard lowered against his body, elbows kicked out in a surely uncomfortable position and arse up in the air, his tunic rolling downwards over him to uncover a hint of the dimples at his backside.

As the rogue moaned enthusiastically, which had Dorian mentally complain about how he was the only one not allowed to produce even a single sound, his breeches were peeled off him. His half hard cock was happy for the favour issued that had freed it from its cage and, unrestrained, quickly proceeded to fill up with blood the rest of the way.

The Inquisitor helped his lover out of the tight garment and, after having dropped it most unceremoniously to the floor, he gave Dorian an approving look with an implicit question. No smallclothes?

Capricious as a child, the mage refused to acknowledge him, but when Reinhard sat back on his folded legs making it clear he awaited a response, Dorian was forced to indulge him.

“Oh, so speech is not forbidden entirely, then. Yes, I do like to live dangerously and foregoing the silks is a suiting act of rebellion. Are you happy, now?” He hissed feinting jaundice.

Reinhard smiled and, carefully avoiding touching him, put his hands either side of the mage’s head, lowered down and riposted into his parted lips.

“Infinitely. And I can’t help but feel pity for you.”

“Pity? How so?” He frowned.

“Why yes, with tight leathers covering you, forced into that armchair, surrounded by people without being able to touch yourself at the thought of me, or to ease the pressure in any way. How do you endure? Crossing and uncrossing your legs all day can only help so much.” The brute.

Dorian craned his neck to stifle the arousal into Reinhard’s mouth, and the rogue welcomed the assault and kissed him back. But the arousal had bled into his nether regions, now that they were free to reply in kind he couldn’t refrain from canting his hips up, in hopes to find something to rut against.

When his sensitive head came into contact with the prickling wool of Trevelyan’s tunic, he winced and groaned against the man’s teeth. His fear of losing even that little form of release was eclipsed when, instead of cutting the kiss short and moving away, the Inquisitor flexed down and pressed his clothed stomach against the aching member.

Dorian shook with need and began jerking against the man, every moan and every scream swallowed by the rogue.

But Reinhard was too perceptive for his own good and just as Dorian’s lips tightened against his and his movements became imperceptibly erratic, the Inquisitor stilled and wrapped his Mark around the base of the mage’s weeping cock, alluring with its foreign hum but halting his impending climax.

Dorian gasped, half in shock, half in relief for not having to shun his pubescent stamina publicly.

There it was, the flame in the back of his lover’s eyes that burnt bright and heralded the beginning of the game that had Dorian sidling the precipice of orgasm without slipping forward.

The Inquisitor rose and again sat with crossed legs twixt the mage’s sprawled ones. His marked hand caressed a twitching thigh while the forefinger of the other teased the clear bead of precome at the tip of his sex. Reinhard brought the digit to his lips and sucked eagerly, savouring every nuance of the teardrop on his tongue, until a string of saliva escaped his mouth to gather in the crease between his middle and forefinger.

Dorian needed something, anything to distract himself. Without realizing it, he tilted his hips once and parted his lips.

“Want a taste?” The Tevinter answered with nothing but pleading eyes.

The mixture of spit and a sample of his own desire made him dizzy and he wanted to busy himself sucking onto the finger forever. If nothing of substance ever came afterwards, he would’ve still been content with just the one. But it was gone a second later, and Dorian mouthed empty supplications that were left unanswered.

Reinhard gripped his root tightly, so much it almost made him wince, and ghosted with an open mouth over the mage’s shaft and head. But what came was just the tip of his tongue, teasing at his slit back and forth, hardening and pressing insistently, to the point Dorian begun to think the rogue would’ve tried to breach his hole, and start tenderly fucking his meatus. The idea wasn’t as frightening and unwelcome as he would’ve believed in more lucid moments and he found himself wanting to feel more of Reinhard, filling him completely, whatever the shape this desire would’ve taken. The Inquisitor stopped his ministrations to look up and with the thirstiest expression he stated, matter-of-factly.

“Always better from the spring.”

Dorian mewled and buried his head in the pillow, unable to hold back.

“Now I’m gonna have to punish you for that.”

He wanted to say no, to struggle, to refuse, to put up a fight just for the sake of giving Reinhard his due. But his mind knew better and his thoughts were garbled. In the end, a drawn out cry of “Yes” escaped him.

Reinhard moved around him to organize the pillows to his taste and grabbed Dorian under his arms to position him. The mage was transfixed.

The Inquisitor offered a chaste kiss and expectantly looked at his lover.

“Red.” He answered simply to the implicit question. Trevelyan nodded and pressed flush to him, spreading Dorian’s legs with his own. It would’ve seemed a prelude to sex, but Reinhard still wore his breeches, although they were bulging and straining the leather. It was comforting to know he wasn’t unaffected.

He pressed forward, trapping Dorian’s balls against their bodies. The mage shut his eyes as the first spark of discomfort travelled through him, from where the soft testes clashed with the even softer material that hid a certain hardness, as his lover’s own arousal tested the garment’s tightness.

The rogue leaned down, unrelenting, pulling his lover by the hips to crush him with his weight. He crawled forward to pin his body against Dorian’s and put his hands to better use, now that his parted thighs were doing a marvellous job at keeping him spread and exposed. Their foreheads thudded together and Reinhard’s nimble fingers tangled in his hair, this time without care or affection. Those things were definitely still bubbling underneath, but the notes of malice and dominance overwhelmed it all. The pull stung, but kept his mind in a different place than the one where his gonads were being squeezed and tenderized. He could feel every follicle strain under the bowstring tension, his scalp prickling with heat.

He stared into the Inquisitor’s eyes and found no judgement, no bias. Trevelyan wanted him, cared for him, Dorian dared to think the man loved him, and those feelings were there inside of him even in moments such as this. But it was a simple punishment for a simple failure to comply. A logical conclusion. Now it was time to test Dorian’s limits to see if, with the right motivation, the mage could have found in himself a way to obey, selflessly.

Reinhard was still clothed, probably achingly hard under the leathers, and had showered him with nothing but praise. He knew the rogue got off on seeing him try so desperately to please, both on the field as well as in private, so it was his mission to make sure he got what he wanted to see. The Inquisitor always knew best, he knew his companions and how to juggle them during a fight, where to position each one and what to have them do. On Dorian’s bed it was no different. The man had carved a hole in his chest and climbed down inside to see what even Dorian himself refused to admit.

That he needed to feel that bright white, sizzling pool of self-hatred that coiled and unwound in his belly – like a venomous snake ready to infect him but which was kept leashed by Reinhard’s measured ministrations and affections – finally vanish once and for all. It was a double-edged dagger, and only the rogue knew how to wield it with a grip that would’ve kept both of them alive. Dorian needed balance, most of all, and he needed to learn from Reinhard how to love himself, how to accept all he was without giving himself grief for it. Slowly, Dorian was inching closer to acceptance, proud of his improvements, free to express himself.

A coaxing in the right direction for every time he strayed, a firm hand whenever he was restless, a prize after a successful trial; pain and pleasure. And sometimes Reinhard was so good to him that the transition was seamless.

The mage blinked slowly and produced a tiny nod that signalled the man that he could continue whenever he was ready.

He was. He licked a line across Dorian’s lips, like a seal not to be broken until further instruction, and quickly released the raven-black locks.

The Inquisitor rolled his hips forcefully against Dorian’s groin for a few more seconds before finally easing the pressure and observe how the mage frowned and flinched, but without complaint. Immensely proud of his lover, he leaned back and began gently massaging his sac with the ball of his hand. A hand that hummed with the sulphuric song of the Fade was the only contact between them, a focused roll of skin on skin and Dorian slowly came back to earth, the sting of his punishment melting into a pleasant massage.

“Listen. How delightful the sound of silence is. You can concentrate on everything else.”

The fire was dying down, but instantly enlivened as Dorian fisted the sheets, following the tightening of his knuckles. The porous layers of the hardest logs in the fireplace popped as the blistering flames conjured with magic hissed against the spongy sapwood. There was a rustle of silk around his legs, probably the result of his own shivers or Reinhard’s uncomfortable position. Then he could hear it. Under his raspy breaths and the rogue’s steady but deep ones, the Chant.

And it was blasphemous, it was filthy and glorious.

“Maker.” Escaped him. But words weren’t forbidden, only the noises of coupling that would have made their lovemaking effectively something to be stricken down for.

“Now, now. Say that and Mother Giselle will be sure to come upstairs to recruit us for the next Canticle.”

They smirked. But the meaning of the exchange was clear. If Dorian could hear the people praying below, shrouded in religious silence as they were, they could’ve heard them too.

“But you were so good. Now you deserve a reward.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank- ” He would’ve kept going, but the vision of Reinhard finally losing his tunic silenced him.

They were so different in their similarities. They were both well-formed young men, with diversely distributed muscular mass but strong lines where needed and soft curves where it mattered. But as much as Dorian enjoyed the looks and occasional catcalling – never mind that some of those were only to capture his attention so he could see them spit to the ground or flip him off like he was a common scoundrel come to steal a merchant’s wares – and sought them out with strategic wardrobe malfunctions such as a missed sleeve, or a purposefully unclasped buckle, Reinhard never disrobed in front of others. The occasional near-death experience on the field was taken care of by either the healer or surgeon at hand, but Dorian doubted that anybody else – save perhaps for Solas’ examinations during the first few days after the Conclave, although the Inquisitor had been unconscious and couldn’t say what had transpired – had ever seen him shirtless.

He had struck down dragons, wrestled a wyvern bare-handed when her tail had knocked both of Reinhard’s daggers out of his blood-slicked grip – which had made the Iron Bull growl deeply with arousal in the middle of the fens at the display of ferociousness from both beasts – and the Inquisitor had held onto dear life on jagged rocks sharp as knives without so much as flinching. But no matter the scorching sun crossing the cloudless cerulean backdrop that framed Skyhold, the rogue wouldn’t lose his garment even as he made pincushions out of sparring mannequins.

Dorian felt incredibly lucky to be the recipient of the Inquisitor’s trust. For so long the man had feared to be loathed for his appearance it made the mage’s stomach curl and boil when Trevelyan first revealed it to him. To think the perfect, hard and firm alabaster of his chest would be crossed off as anything less than a masterpiece was outrageous. With his shoulders dusted in cinnamon freckles, the peach-soft nipples that Dorian desperately wanted to cherish simultaneously, the warm waves of his tendinous serratus ladder that made the eye helplessly drift down to washboard abdominals – how could anybody deny Reinhard’s features did anything but compliment the doily of thin and thick pearlescent lines down his chest?

And the straight, bright and angry thread of an assassination attempt that hadn’t healed thoroughly was just the painter’s signature on the canvas, at his gut.

Dorian didn’t know the source of each marking, and he was curious to explore more than what met the eye, but was content for the moment to have something deep enough with the Inquisitor that made him chose to share it with him, of all people. The term ‘amatus’ very nearly escaped his lips on more than one occasion, but the Tevinter didn’t want to delude himself with daydreams and unattainable fantasies. Endearments were handed out liberally, but returning to Tevene after all this time, in love, was a final step he wasn’t ready to take unless he had the certainty of a stable relationship, more than just enticing diversions. Slowly, Reinhard was managing to convince Dorian of his serious intentions, and it was little short of overwhelming.

_ The first time the rogue had trusted him enough to bare himself to him – or perhaps the first time the Inquisitor was too drunk on lust to forget his modesty for once –had been exhilarating. Dorian was enthusiastically lapping at his inner thigh, nuzzling the crook where leg meets hip and taking in the man’s musk, so much more intense down there. Faint soap that carried the perfume of citrus and spice, but barely there, at the back of his tongue, when the woodsy, feral scent of Reinhard overpowered it. Trevelyan’s cock tapped his cheek wetly, like a heavy paw. Dorian had had just a chalice of vermilion red wine, sweet and warm, but nothing compared with the sight and skin under him. The rogue then pulled at his clothes with fidgeting hands, restlessly undoing buttons and clasps until the dove-grey doublet fell to the floor unceremoniously. _

_ It was a moment of devotion, Dorian felt as if surrounded by a grand cathedral, the body of Andraste displayed in front of him, pure and shrouded in cleansing flame. So simple but a revelation at the same time. He looked the man over, knowing his lingering gaze was perhaps uncomfortable for the Inquisitor who never shedded his clothing, and wished he could stand and kneel again in reverence, to thank him for the epiphany that was his body. A wet kiss was laid on the dip of Reinhard’s navel and, as Dorian’s hands rushed to commit every scar to memory, his lips delicately mapped the corners of his flushed cicatrix. _

Now, it was as novel as the first time had been. Dorian was snapped out of his thoughts when a request reached his ears.

“I don’t want you to spend until it’s time.” Reinhard whispered with hooded, hungry eyes. “Can you do that for me?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back much longer.” There was no shame in admitting it, the rogue nodded and produced a string of leather from one of his pockets. Sweet heavens.

The vice was tight, but not painful. Dorian’s lack of pubic hair made the task much simpler for Reinhard, who snugly pulled together base and balls and gripped them firmly before wrapping the strip around the root of the mage’s impossibly full cock, as close to his body as he could tie it.

They both looked down at the artwork. Maker, how Dorian’s member was weeping with a thread like spider silk, shiny at the source and glittering against the light from the fire. The tip was so flushed and sensitive he could feel upon it the exhilarated gust of empty laughter that got past Reinhard’s lips. And his sac was still red and sore, but now bunched up and taut over his balls, bulging perfectly, tight and ready to burst.

“I want you to look at me, alright?”

“I wouldn’t miss this if someone paid me my weight in gold to look away.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You can take all you want of me, dear.”

The Inquisitor crouched between his legs and briefly massaged his own hardness. It must have been excruciating by then. Pillows were moved around again, and Dorian ended up almost folded on himself, legs hooked over Reinhard’s shoulders, genitals completely exposed.

There, where the mage’s scrotum connected with a line of a darker shade to his taint, Dorian’s own scent overpowered the senses. Trevelyan started lapping and his lover could almost see him in all of his ministrations. Eyes closed, cheeks tensed and rosy lips parted, with the deep rumble of something raw within him to top the scenery, he couldn’t help but think of a loyal dog nuzzling his owner with glee.

_ Dorian was myrrh and honeysuckle, nectarine, bitter-sweet and exotic. Reinhard wanted to bite down wherever his mouth laid, feel his intoxicating juices drench him. _

_ Myrrh, hailing from wounded trees that shouldered wars only to fall for vanity, bled for amber beads and employed to embalm the dead in Nevarra and fade bruises at the same time. Alluring and opiate, slowly drugging him to addiction. Honeysuckle, with poisonous and beguiling berries, with roots in shade but flowers in the sunlight, arching and twisting to create decorative vines of green and bold colours. Intoxicating and serene. Bitter and unequivocally narcotic. It felt as if the mage had bathed in aphrodisiac. _

_ As much as Trevelyan’s tastes betrayed his lineage, spartan and frugal as they were, Dorian’s own were exactly as one would expect. All the most refined materials, in his garments and pervading even the way he carried himself. _

_ But Reinhard had seen deeper, where others hadn’t. _

_ The mage had sided with him since the beginning, with an expression of worry and resolve that spoke volumes, never betraying the mutual trust the two men had put at each other’s mercy.  _

_ Being thrown into a dreadful future with Dorian his only lifeline had made something spark in both of them. And everything else, every exchange and sweet gaze retrieved amidst the rubble and dust of the walls crumbling around them had led to that very moment. _

_ Dorian was more than what they painted him to be. Perhaps he was indeed as arrogant, presumptuous and vain as most of the soldiers and workers around the fortress declaimed, but Trevelyan knew that it was a mask. Not necessarily entirely counterfeit to protect his wounded spirit, just enhanced and amplified to achieve a measure of added defence. _

_ Every flaw that was part of his being had been exaggerated, to act as a shield. The man enjoyed the company of his equals, to test his ability and be assured that it wasn’t a dream – or a nightmare – he was now living, and to have proof that his mind was still functioning properly, even after the long journey outside Tevinter and into the unknown. But others, unfortunately, still saw him as the “Magister” who looked down upon half the population of Skyhold, cocksure and pompous, came out of nowhere with his golden rings and waxed moustache that screamed of pretentiousness. _

_ The Inquisitor believed that his companions, however, knew the truth. Even Blackwall answered in kind to Dorian’s teasing, when the warrior could have very well ignored his retorts or dismiss the mage entirely. The others had begun believing in the Altus less subtly, opening themselves to him and getting to know him with an honest interest. Sera and Bull, no matter how hard they tried to make little of it, genuinely enjoyed Dorian’s company – Varric saw right through him and had immediately worked out the mage’s intentions. Cole just knew. The others were getting there. _

_ Reinhard hadn’t needed coaxing.  _

_ And after their meeting with his father, Dorian had begun opening as well and had started being more honest with himself and around the fortress as well, not only strictly privately, not only just with Reinhard anymore. But it was subtle and almost unnoticeable unless one spent a considerable amount of time with the mage. _

_ Cullen had noticed the difference, through his frequent games of chess with the Altus. To hear the Commander, there was now a clarity to Dorian’s strategy, the viciousness and defensiveness that were once present now dampened. It had taken a while to adjust to the change, but the mage’s wits hadn’t wavered and as much as the style had shifted, the battle for victory hadn’t gotten any easier. Bull’s training most certainly had allowed him to sense that a weight had been lifted from Dorian’s shoulders. _

_ But through it all, no rumour of the clandestine relation between the Tevinter and the Inquisitor had surfaced yet. Perhaps the inner circle had helped in containing the stray voices and in shrouding more obvious exchanges, but Reinhard had no way of knowing. _

_ The mage already felt like he had enough to prove to people – Reinhard knew as much, despite the mage rarely confessing his fears to him outright, but the rogue’s second-guessing was accurate enough – without having to add ‘extortion of favours from the Inquisitor in person through sexual blackmail’ to the list of his supposed crimes. _

_ So if anybody knew of them, so far no one had breathed a word, and as long as Dorian wished it would’ve stayed that way. _

_ Still – the intense fragrances on Dorian’s skin carried all of this and more, but the fact that they were heavenly and that the Inquisitor wouldn’t have traded them for the whole of Thedas stood strong despite everything else. _

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this work was written years ago, polished and re-written a couple of times, and only now finally posted because I'm tired of keeping it around and it needs to be out into the world! It's still unfinished but I have a sequel planned, and I'm hoping positive feedback will encourage me to write the conclusion to this first installment. I do have more chapters ready to be posted, though, so keep an eye out for those!


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